


Burning of the Arena

by strictlybecca



Series: fifteen pieces of nagron [12]
Category: Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strictlybecca/pseuds/strictlybecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When pirates board one of the ships of His Majesty's Royal Navy, they find Lieutenant Agron Schmidt in the brig.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning of the Arena

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so if you like Nagron and pirates, what you need to do first is read FunkyinFishnet's amazing [fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/600528) because that pirate-verse is fucking perfect and nothing I could ever write would be better than that BUT the ever fantastic aeternium prompted pirates on tumblr, and so here I am, on the raggedy edge.
> 
> Okay, back yet? Read it yet? Great, awesome. Now, I suppose you can read mine.
> 
> Quick note, trigger warning for explicit discussion of methods of suicide/a suicide attempt - but no actual suicide occurs. The canonical death is, of course, Duro's.

Lieutenant Agron Schmidt of the _Arena,_ one of His Majesty’s Royal Navy’s finest ships in the fleet, was locked in the brig. Below deck on the ship was hardly auspicious accommodation. The barrels and crates shifted with the rocking movement of the ship and every inch of bare surface was damp or covered in barnacles or mildew. Agron sat, head buried in his hands and soaked to his bones.

What crime he’d committed, he couldn’t exactly say, but it seemed as if attempting to shuttle off this mortal coil by throwing oneself overboard due to witnessing the untimely and unnecessary death of one’s beloved younger brother was a crime worthy of time spent in lock up.

Either that, or the crew hadn’t a single bleeding clue how to deal with an officer gone mad with grief.

They’d relieved him of his sword and pistol immediately, and taken his coat and hat – under the pretense of drying the items, but Agron knew it was fairly symbolic of the stripping of his rank and duties – and then placed him in the brig, the iron bars of the cage well worn and still strong. They’d barely caught him before he’d gone over, only the barest grasp of his arm and coat keeping him on board – and then when they’d hauled him back over and slapped him around, as if that alone would shake some sanity back into him, he had no answers for their questions.

Killing oneself was a mortal sin, one against God and King and Country and a whole mess of things Agron could no longer bring himself to care about. There was a great, gasping black hole in the middle of Agron’s chest and every intake of breath just fed it. It grew wider by the hour until Agron could no longer tell the edge of himself from the emptiness inside. His brother had been a mid-shipman aboard the Arena, as per Agron’s request. _Not even the King himself could separate him from his brother_ , he’d thought. Not even the call of the sea could force them apart. 

Another swell of grief washed over Agron and he choked back the awful, empty rage that was aching in his chest, knowing that nothing less than blood would quiet the fury growing inside him. But there were none to blame but his superior officers – Duro was never supposed to be on the front lines. He was an artillery man, through and through. No one better – and the Commodore knew it. But he’d called all hands to the deck, forced Duro into boarding the opposing ship as the Arena’s crew tried to take control – and he’d died in the firefight.

Bullet through the heart.

Agron had shouted himself hoarse, clutching at Duro as the blood spilled everywhere, the gaping wound in his brother’s chest giving him only seconds to say goodbye.

He couldn’t even bring the body back to the Arena. He’d been forced to leave him behind as the Commodore commanded the other vessel be razed to the bottom of the sea. Duro’s body was engulfed in the flames of the ship and Agron watched from the deck for as long as he could – which was hardly any time at all. 

They sailed off, like nothing had changed. Like Agron’s whole world had not just been burned away – until nothing remained. The men gave him his space, the Commodore Glaber saying something about duty and honor – but Agron noticed none of it. Instead he stood and stared at the ocean for hours, weighing the methods of taking his life. Hanging seemed unfeasible, while slitting his own throat seemed too likely to end poorly, or not in the desired result. Blasting his own brains out was an attractive option, but still left a body to clean up for the crew. No, no, throwing himself overboard seemed cleanest.

And brought him closest to Duro.

But grief had dulled Agron’s reflexes and he’d been caught and tossed below deck to rot in his own thoughts and nightmares. No officer came to speak to him, no one came to apologize for Agron’s loss. None cared to remember Duro. Agron felt himself draw deeper and deeper into that dark abyss eating at him and hours must have passed that way, just sitting and waiting for something to happen, for it all to end.

And then there were gunshots on deck. The ship was suddenly rocked by cannonfire and Agron found himself sprawled across the floor of his cell, tipped forward by momentum of the blast. “What the-” he asked aloud hoarsely, but his question was only answered minutes later, when several people burst into the storeroom where the brig was kept.

He was struck first by the woman of the group of three, beautiful in her own right but so far from the soft, coddled women Agron knew back in England. She was dark haired, darker skinned and armed to the teeth – and quite out of place aboard a ship, where women were generally though to be bad luck. The others though - two men, one broad backed and grim faced, the other slight with dark hair and a twist of a smirk on his lips - Agron could spot their chosen profession a mile away.

 _Pirates_ , he thought, and felt no fear. Instead, he felt satisfaction. Those responsible for Duro’s death would be seen to. Commodore Glaber may yet receive his due.

“Well, what d’we ‘ave here?” drawled the woman, leaning casually against the shoulder of the broad backed man, his arm hooking around her waist with practiced ease. She twirled a short sword, worn and covered with blood. “What kind o’ trull gets locked up on a boat like this one? A nipper? A stowaway?” 

“’E’s too big to be a folster,” the smaller man said, picking idly at his nails with the small knife in his hands, eyes roving eagerly over Agron’s form. “More like a traitor, or a pris’ner of war.”

“No use for ‘im then,” the bigger man grunted. “Let’s kill ‘em and move on, Spartacus will be wantin’ us back on deck.”

“S’pose so,” the smaller man said and started forward, even as Agron shoved himself to his feet, swaying with tumultuous shifting of the boat and the disorientation of moving with haste.

“Did you kill him?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you kill the Commodore yet?” The man paused, still drawing out his pistol. 

“What s’it t’you?” he asked derisively, pointing the knife at him. “You’ll be dead before your next breath, do it really matter?”

“Trying to off myself is what got me in here,” Agron retorted. “That’s not a threat I’m particularly intimidated by. Just – just, can you tell me if he’s dead? That is all I want to know – a dead man’s last wish, if you want. Please,” he said, his voice steady despite the aching, empty feeling growing in his chest.

“’E speaks like a right toff,” the woman murmured. “No way e’s a part o’ a canting crew.”

“Not a toff,” Agron denied slowly, “I used to be apart of this crew.”

“A Navy man,” the bigger man let out a long whistle, “Well, call me a fishmongering whore, they locked up one o’ their own.”

“All the better yet t’ off ‘im now,” the smaller man pointed out. “No reason t’do as ‘e asks-”

“I can help you,” Agron said, a little desperately. “The Captain and the Commodore are paranoid men, they hide all their best goods, maps and gold. You could search a hundred years in their cabins and never find it all. I’ll show you where it all is and you can still shoot me – just, tell me if you’ve killed them yet.” 

“D’you think me some bird-witted clunch?” he snapped. “S’not a cold chance in Hades that you’ll turn on your Navy culls. Not a chance. And just why is their lives so bleedin’ important t’you?” the man asked impatiently. “S’just two men, worthy of nothing.”

“Someone died today,” Agron said, his voice scraping out of his throat. “And the responsibility for the death lies in their hands. I want them dead. If not by my hands, then by yours. But they cannot live.”

There was a long, dark pause, while the man sized Agron up, twirling his knife between his fingers. He seemed to be looking for something, some certainty of word that Agron could not offer beyond what he had already given. When his gaze met Agron’s, Agron felt a frisson of heat spark down his spine and through his fingers, warmth where he’d never thought he’d feel warmth again. The man nodded slowly. “You cap downright?” he asked suspiciously and Agron nodded in return.

“I swear,” he promised solemnly, “Shoot me dead if I lie.”

“I plan to,” the man grumbled, stooping slightly to pick the lock on the brig door, the other man and women absorbed in prowling the storeroom, peering in boxes and barrels for anything useful. “M’Nasir,” he muttered, out of the blue, and Agron blinked, pleased for some reason he couldn’t identify.

“Agron,” he murmured back, stepping closer to Nasir and the door of the brig, searching his mind for something to say. Suddenly, the door to the storeroom burst open again, and the Captain fell inside, panting wildly. 

“Lieutenant,” he called, struggling to his feet, “Lieutenant, we need you out there, we have been overrun, we-” The Captain seemed to catch sight of the pirates in the next moment because he froze and stared, eyes focusing in on Nasir picking the lock on Agron’s cell. “What are you doing? What bloody hell is going on? Wh-”

Quicker than a flash, Agron darted forward and yanked Nasir’s pistol out of his holster, pointing it through the bars at the captain, ignoring Nasir’s growl and attempts to snatch it back.

He had a task to fulfill. For Duro’s sake.

“What was my brother’s name?” he asked steadily, almost quietly – and the Captain just _stared_ at him.

“Lieutenant Schmidt, what in God’s name do you think-”

“What,” Agron repeated, more loudly, his voice like steel, “was my brother’s name?” The Captain just gaped. “He died today,” Agron said, hand shifting on the pistol, “He was a part of this crew and you and the Commodore sent him to his death and I just want to know, I need to know – did you know his name?” 

Agron could see the exact moment the Captain realized that he would not live to see the end of the day.

“His name was Duro Schmidt,” Agron said, his voice hoarse. “And you are nothing compared to the man he was.” He fired. It was a long moment of silence before the brig door finally swung open and Nasir snatched his pistol back from Agron, scowling fiercely. 

“Try that again, I _dare_ you,” Nasir bit out, but there was something more behind his eyes now when he looked at Agron. “Guess you have your answer ‘bout ‘im.”

“The Commodore is the one who was most at fault,” Agron murmured after a long second of staring at the dead body of the Captain. 

“Well, you’re in luck, the crew ‘as just finished cleanin’ house on deck,” the woman said, peering up out of the storeroom’s door, up through the hatch in the hall to the open deck. “Now’s your chance to go see if ‘is Royal ‘ighness survived the battle.”

“Doubtful,” Agron murmured derisively, following Nasir out of the brig cell, collecting his gun and sword from where they were hanging on the wall, and moving to lift his jacket from the peg. 

“I would not, if’n I were you,” the bigger man tsked. “A coat like that’ll get you shot in a jiff the moment you step on deck. Besides, not much of a Navy man anymore, are you,” the man chuckled darkly, glancing over the body of the dead captain. 

“I’m realizing I was never much of one, even at the start,” Agron said, brushing past the body easily, not a single regret laying on his mind.

“Well that’s awful mercenary o’ you, toff,” the man taunted, a grim smile across his face. “You sound like a bleedin’ pirate.”

“S’not such a bad idea, we could use a shot like that,” the woman murmured, but gave Agron no chance to respond before the group herded him out of the storeroom and towards the hatch to the deck. He took a deep breath before moving to follow the man and woman up the ladder, but the warmth of Nasir’s body pressing close to his made him pause.

“If ‘e’s alive,” Nasir said, grabbing at Agron’s shirt sleeve. “I’ll let you shoot ‘im,” he promised, eyes focused on Agron’s, the warm line of his body distracting against Agron’s arm.

Agron swallowed hard. “I… I would appreciate that, very much,” he replied as steadily as he could, the idea of taking vengeance for himself sounding so utterly appealing he felt light headed from the desire – though Nasir’s dark eyes may have contributed as well. For a second, the aching hole in his chest eased for the slightest moment, the heat from Nasir’s gaze dulling the furious roar. For that single moment, Agron wondered if, in time, Nasir could quiet it completely. 

“Figured you would,” Nasir muttered, nudging Agron hard in the shoulder. “C’mon, steady on, we got t’ present you to Spartacus,” he said, a grin crossing his lips. “You’ll like ‘im. 'E's crazy like you.”

Agron's lips lifted in a small, aching smile as he nodded. "I'm sure we will get along just fine."

**Author's Note:**

> And then somehow Agron becomes a pirate whoooo.
> 
> This was supposed to feature that whole thing and then probably the ship getting burned thus the title BUT THIS GOT LONG and I have like 4 more AUs to write today SO. Perhaps another day.


End file.
